


The Breath That Passed from You to Me

by exfactor



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6305758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exfactor/pseuds/exfactor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If she’s honest – really, truly honest – with herself, Clarke doesn’t really remember the first time she saw Lexa.</p><p>Lexa can’t say the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**I** _

  
  
  
If she’s honest – really, truly honest – with herself, Clarke doesn’t really remember the first time she saw Lexa.  
  
Lexa can’t say the same.  
  
The first day of Modern Art History class, Lexa carefully pulled the door shut behind her to find a class of fifteen staring back at her. She’d thought it was a lecture class. She just needed one easy Art History class to finish up her graduation requirements. She wouldn’t have left it for her final semester had she even known about it.  
  
When she’d read the syllabus on the first day of the class, Lexa thought about dropping out. Two trips to a local museum and one small group project. A lecture class would never have that. Lectures were all smooth sailing with just a mid-term and a final exam. As a business major, that was Lexa's bread and butter. But a lecture also wouldn’t have that breathtaking blonde with blue eyes that made her head fuzzy, either. With that thought, she considered dropping out again. It was her last semester, in the middle of her last season of lacrosse, and she didn’t need that kind of distraction.  
  
She’d just stay away from her. There were fourteen other people in the class. Fourteen other small group partners. No problem.  
  
Lexa certainly never expected to have Clarke sitting on the rolling chair near her desk looking at her while she propped herself up on her twin bed. Being a senior had its perks, but even single rooms came with just a twin bed and one chair.  
  
Clarke's been staring at her laptop, looking at Pollock, Johns, and Rauschenberg, absorbed so deeply in each that Lexa's not sure she's actually thinking about the project any more. It's been more than an hour and they still have just two of the fifteen slides they need for their presentation.  
  
“Isn’t Modern Art History a sort of oxymoron?” Lexa huffs, frustrated.  
  
Clarke doesn't even look up from her screen. “How do you mean?”  
  
“It just seems like ‘modern’ and ‘history’ don’t belong in the same sentence. Can you study the history of something that’s modern? Do we need more time to pass before we can contextualize its history?”  
  
The depth of Lexa's question surprises Clarke, like Lexa's been thinking about it for a while now, and she turns to face the girl on the bed. “We’ve been looking at work that’s more than fifty years old at this point. Is that enough context for you?”  
  
“If it’s more than fifty years old, is it still modern?” Lexa dramatically throws air quotes around the word ‘modern,' like it's offensive somehow and Clarke's not sure if it's ok to laugh at her. “And furthermore, wouldn’t your art be considered modern? I mean, you’re doing art and it is _modern_ times.” The air quotes again. Clarke doesn't ask how Lexa knows about her art.  
  
“I don’t like to label my art. And you’re making my head hurt, Lexa. It’s ‘modern’ art because that’s how the Art History department categorized this class.”  
  
“Doesn’t make sense to me," Lexa mutters, looking back to her screen.  
  
Clarke keeps her eyes on Lexa a moment more. She's got her eyebrows furrowed as she scrolls long fingers down the side of the touchscreen and Clarke thinks about the last time she found herself attracted to a girl. A few months ago, she thinks, eyes looking just past Lexa now, some girl she'd met at a party. She didn't even remember her name, just the feel of her warm breath against her neck and her fingers against her inner thigh.  
  
Clarke hadn't expected to find herself in Lexa's bedroom either. When the professor suggested that the class spend five minutes sorting through partners and picking project topics Clarke had been so absorbed in her sketch that she was oblivious to the rest of the class.  
  
It wasn't uncommon for Clarke to get lost completely in anything but a studio class. While everyone else tapped away at laptop keyboards, Clarke's sketchbook filled with delicate curves and intricate shading. She'd sketch the trees outside the window in Environmental Science, the pattern of the floor tiles in Psych 102, even the gentle wisps of gray hair and liver spots atop her Stat professor's head. In her first year she'd realized that the classroom was not for her. That didn't mean that she could shirk all of her graduation requirements, unfortunately.  
  
She'd only looked up from her sketch when Lexa's shadow darkened her notebook. She'd mumbled something about Clarke being the only person left without a partner and wrote her email address on the top of Clarke's sketch. A few terse emails later and here they are.  
  
“I can’t believe you listen to this music.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“This music. It surprises me. That you like it.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“'She can fuck the squad, what else…?’”  
  
“It’s ‘she gonna fuck the squad.’”  
  
Clarke’s head swivels to look at Lexa and she squints her eyes. A few minutes ago, she couldn’t imagine Lexa saying ‘fuck,’ much less her listening to this kind of music.  
  
The corner of Lexa’s mouth pulls up in a smirk.  
  
One of the things Clarke loves about being a Studio Art major is that she can do work when the inspiration strikes. In fact, she often finds herself covered in paint splotches in a studio across campus at five in the morning. But inspiration doesn't strike - not ever - when she has to write a paper, or read fifty pages in a textbook, or study for a test. And inspiration apparently doesn't strike on group projects for Art History, either, even if those projects involve an intriguing and very (very) pretty partner. Which is how she's found herself flipping through the "Game Time" playlist on the phone that's docked to a small portable stereo.  
  
Clarke skips to the middle of the next song.  
  
“'Flick her off in the whip, make her take Uber home?’”  
  
“'Fuck her off…'”  
  
“Lexa. Jeez.”  
  
“It’s not like I would actually say something like that. Or believe it. Or…I just like the sound. I like the beat and the vibe. It makes me feel something before I play.” Clarke eyes her from the desk chair.  
  
“Are we going to work on this project or are you just going to shame me about my musical choices?”  
  
She can’t tell if Lexa’s joking or not. There’s no smirk this time and lord is it hard to read this girl. She almost wants to apologize but thinks better of it.  
  
"I was meaning to ask you about that," Clarke says, switching the topic. "You're on the lacrosse team?" She can't feign ignorance here. Lexa's bookbag has the school logo, lacrosse sticks, and her number embroidered into it. She has some official looking trophy collecting dust on the bookshelf in front of her, and there are no fewer than four lacrosse sticks in plain view.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You guys any good?" Clarke had barely heard of lacrosse back at home. A few private schools played it, but she'd never seen a game.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Aren't you a wealth of information." Clarke can't help but snap at Lexa's reserve.  
  
That earns her another smirk. Clarke meets it with her own toothy grin. "Seriously," she begins, and Lexa can hear the smile the in the tone of her voice and her breath catches at the idea of being the reason that Clarke is smiling, even if it is because she's being an ass. "Tell me about the team, about lacrosse. I don't know anything about it."  
  
"Well," Lexa pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and she pauses for a moment, like she's considering whether to let Clarke in on a secret. "It's hard to describe actually, if you've never seen it." She suddenly pushes her laptop off of her lap and she's leaning over Clarke at her desk in an instant, searching for a Youtube video of a game from last year. Clarke watches her long, lithe fingers tap against her keyboard and feels hot for a moment.  
  
"This is our playoff game from last year. The one we won. We lost the next one, semifinals. But we won this..."  
  
"Oh there's you," Clarke exclaims before she can finish. "Number twelve, right? That's on your backpack." And maybe she should feel embarassed that she can so easily recall the details of Lexa's backpack, but she's too enamored by the game in front of her, or maybe the feeling of Lexa's body heat next to her.  
  
"Why do you wear those masks?"  
  
"They're to protect your eyes and nose. Mainly from getting checked by a stick, but also so you don't take a ball to the face."  
  
"Let me tell you, balls to the face are no good." Clarke curses herself as it's coming out of her mouth. It's like she's forgotten where she is and who she's with. "Joking. Of course," she covers quickly as her cheeks heat up. She's glad for the video that continues to play because she does not want to look to see if Lexa finds it funny.  
  
After a moment, Lexa bails her out. "We definitely don't want any balls to the face. I've gotta keep myself looking good here."  
  
Clarke turns to smile at Lexa, but it dies as she turns her head to find Lexa even closer. Her green eyes illuminate with the screen of the computer as the room gets darker and darker with the dimming sunlight and she can see a few faint freckles speckled across the bridge of her nose. She watches a few more moments of the game silently, wistfully maybe even, before she closes the window and heaves herself back onto the bed.  
  
It takes almost four more hours. Clarke's never worked this late on a project that isn't at the studio, but maybe because it's art history, or maybe because Lexa's her partner, she thinks could do it all over again. She considers being an art history minor for an instant before admitting that it's Lexa. Completely. Those green eyes she's found throughout the night glancing back at her while they check in on progress. The shy smile she's rewarded with on occasion when she tries (usually only mildly successfully) to make a joke. The way Lexa's sometimes clipped serious voice can change in an instant to something far more tranquil and soft.  
  
"This was fun." Clarke says as she pushes her laptop back into her bag and yawns.  
  
"Clearly," Lexa smiles at Clarke's yawn and adds one of her own.  
  
"We should hang out again sometime. Maybe at The Ark?"  
  
Lexa pauses, considering, weighing. "Can you drink? You have a fake ID or something?" That clipped tone again.  
  
"I'm a junior," Clarke defends.  
  
"Oh. Well, I'm not really into the party scene. Thanks though."  
  
"Ouch." Clarke can't tell if Lexa's being blunt or just rude.  
  
"No, no. I mean," soft now, gentle, "maybe coffee or something." She doesn't sound like she actually wants to get a coffee with Clarke. That same guilt laid under the surface of her words when she stood over Clarke a few weeks ago telling Clarke that she'd be her partner for the project.  
  
"Yeah," Clarke agrees, knowing it's futile to continue the conversation.

  
  
_**II**_

  
  
Clarke loves a good party. Bar, house, bonfire, frat, marching band - doesn't matter. This one's a lacrosse party. When she'd agreed to go with her roommate Octavia, it was only partially out of duty. Being a good friend, of course, meant tagging along to parties where muscle-bound friends' hookups named Lincoln would steal your friend away and you'd be left to your own devices. And, even though it was a men's lacrosse party, Clarke had hoped she might run into Lexa 'I'm not into the party scene' Woods.  
  
Which is how she finds herself studying Lexa from afar as she leans against the sweating wall of the dance room. Lexa's got on these tight dark jeans and a gaping sleeveless t-shirt that reveals the hint of a tattoo running along her ribs. Her head is tilted back and her hair is pulled back and she's taking a long swig from a beer bottle. She doesn't see Clarke across the swarm of sweaty bodies between them and Clarke's not sure she wants to be discovered. At the very least, she wants to enjoy this version of Lexa a few moments longer. Lexa is smiling and laughing with abandon and Clarke wants to know how she can do that to her.  
  
She's not sure how she's come to be so interested in her. At first it was just a glance or two during class, thinking about how Lexa's jaw line and eyes and maybe her fingers would make magnificent subjects for her sketches. Then, it was the project and Lexa's room and she'd been enveloped by her. Now, she can't pull her eyes away.  
  
But when Octavia shoves a shot of something sticky and bitter into her hands and screams something by way of giving a 'cheers,' Clarke loses her and feels a little bit more lightheaded. Apparently Lincoln's gone to make a beer run before the stores close and Octavia needs some entertainment while waiting until he gets back. They dance together while Clarke imagines Lexa's eyes on her. She doesn't want to turn to look and find out because she'd be giving up the game, but she moves her hips slowly and whips her hair away to reveal a trickle of sweat dripping down her neck. A few songs later, her hopes are confirmed as Octavia leans into her and whispers about a girl watching Clarke's every move.  
  
As she makes her way to the bathroom later, she's suddenly eye to eye with Lexa, who's swaying a little into the wall as she greets Clarke with a scowl.  
  
If she's going to scowl, Clarke decides that two can play that game. She hopes her resolve doesn't break and she sneaks a glace down at Lexa's toned bicep, revealing a tattoo she hadn't noticed before. It's some sort of tribal design, she thinks, and she itches to ask about it, but stays resolute.  
  
"I thought you said you don't like parties." Clarke tries her best at her own scowl.  
  
"I don't."  
  
"Well you seem to be enjoying this one."  
  
Lexa looks to the side then down the hall, almost hoping for someone to break up the conversation. "Came with the team."  
  
In their more than five hours of working on the project, Lexa nearly always spoke in complete, fluid sentences. Must be the alcohol, Clarke decides. She lets up a bit, "Do you not like me...or? Did I do something to you?"

Lexa looks up at her then, still scowling but her face softens a little and she runs her tongue over her lips as she chances a look at Clarke's lips.  
  
Clarke's pulled away before she can say any more and Octavia's drunk and telling her that Lincoln's friend think she's cute and Clarke can't think about anything more than how soft Lexa's lips look and what they would feel like against her own and whether she'd be soft or hard or somewhere in between.  
  
When Octavia flits away and Clarke turns back, Lexa is, of course, gone, but there's another girl in her place. Similar to Lexa in more than a superficial way and Clarke can't quite put her finger on it yet.  
  
"You're Clarke, right?"  
  
"Yeah," Clarke says tentatively. This girl had definitely been one of the girls around Lexa downstairs in the dance room.  
  
"Anya," the girls points to herself by way of introduction. "Lexa was right, you are pretty."  
  
"Lexa..." she's blushing and flustered now and Anya smiles evilly as she watches Clarke react, like it was part of her plan to watch Clarke dismantle in front of her. "She said that? She talked to you about me?"  
  
"Don't go thinking too highly of yourself now." And if Anya isn't just another version of Lexa, Clarke's lost her way in the world. She's tight-lipped and cryptic and Clarke can't stand her, but only in a good way.  
  
"What, no...but she acts like she hates me or...I don't know." She still hasn't pulled it together and she feels a little dizzy now. Definitely the alcohol. Definitely not hearing that Lexa thinks she's pretty.  
  
"Far from it. Lexa's just always had her priorities straight. She doesn't let distractions get in the way."  
  
"What do you mean? I'm a distraction? How?"  
  
"I shouldn't answer that question for you." Before Clarke can ask any more, Anya's on the other side of the room refilling her drink and signing up for the next round of beer pong.  
  
With that (and one more shot from Octavia), she seeks Lexa out, finding her in a front room filling up a cup at a keg.  
  
Clarke starts speaking before Lexa even realizes that she's there. "Your friend Anya said I'm a distraction to you."  
  
"What?" The way she stiffens, then turns to face her, Clarke can tell Lexa heard her the first time. Green eyes briefly flit into a panic before resuming their stoic glaze.  
  
"Your friend Anya," Clarke points to where Anya is just barely visible in the other room, "she said I'm a distraction to you."  
  
Lexa just shakes her head and finds Anya through the doorway in the room looking back at them, a sly grin on her face.  
  
"I just," Lexa starts, then stops for several moments. "I can't..."  
  
Clarke hasn't known her long, but she's never seen Lexa at this much of a loss for what to say. In class, she speaks confidently, in complete sentences, without 'ums' or 'likes.' She's never flustered.  
  
"I mean, I guess I'm glad that you don't hate me," Clake relents, "but I don't understand how I'm a distraction, Lexa. Like in what way?"  
  
Lexa runs her hand back and forth along the back of her neck and looks away, back at Anya again.  
  
"We don't even hang out."  
  
"But you want to, Clarke. And I...I want to..." she trails off.  
  
Clarke's brows knit in confusion. "You didn't want to after we worked on the project. You didn't want to when I ran into you in the dining hall. Or at the coffee shop. And now tonight, you didn't seem to want to. I don't understand you, Lexa," she huffs.  
  
"Come here," Lexa says, grabbing her hand quickly and pulling her toward the back door and the cool night air. They settle on a step leading to the backyard. Lexa's knee knocks against Clarke's and she feels the rough texture of Lexa's jeans against her bare leg.  
  
"Sorry, I just didn't want an audience any more." She hasn't dropped Clarke's hand and Clarke hopes it's not just coincidence.  
  
"Look, I do," her voice is softer than Clarke's ever heard it and even though Lexa won't make eye contact, Clarke tightens her grip on Lexa's hand and continues her search for her eyes. "I do want to hang out with you but you scare me. I'm just a month and a half away from graduation, I'm in the middle of my last season of lacrosse, I'm headed to New York next year for grad school, I haven't dated anyone in nearly two years. I just can't have the distraction." Lexa lets go of her hand to push her palms against her eyes and dig her fingers into her scalp.  
  
"Hey, relax. It's ok," Clarke says, pulling one of her hands back into her own and gripping tightly. "It's ok." She's surprised to hear Lexa so unwound. She's surprised to hear that she's gotten so deeply under Lexa's skin.  
  
Lexa looks up at Clarke and Clarke's looking right back at her and Lexa looks lost. She sighs and looks back at their conjoined hands. She moves her other hand to cover Clarke's, clasping it between both of her own and squeezing.  
  
"When you look at me like that I want to kiss you," she says to the ground, refusing to look back at Clarke, "And I'm confused. If I kiss you are you going to be a distraction, like in real life? And if I don't kiss you are you going to haunt me, like in my dreams?"  
  
Clarke thinks about every other time she's been in this situation. "If you were any other girl, Lexa, I think I'd just kiss you. I'd kiss you because I sometimes don't want to think about what's next and it can be more fun that way, but you..." Clarke looks up at her, but Lexa refuses to meet her eyes and she runs her gaze along Lexa's jaw, down her neck, "but I don't want to be a distraction to you. I know how much all of those things - graduation, your team, your future - I can see how much those things mean to you and I can't make that decision for you. But I can promise you," and Clarke pauses and uses her other hand to run two fingers along the other side of Lexa's jaw turning her so that they're face to face, "I can promise you that I do not mean to distract you from anything, I will only support you. And if that means that we just can't be near each other, I can honor that."  
  
Lexa looks away and nods at the ground, pulling her hands away. After a few moments she mumbles, "Think I can be alone for a little?"  
  
Clarke doesn't see her again and she cries on the lonely walk home, not because she wishes Lexa were walking home with her, but because she can't help but think that Lexa won't ever walk home with her.  
  
Lexa isn't at class the next week. Or the week after. She can't stop herself from looking up Lexa's profile on the university's athletics website and feels some relief that they've had away games the past two Thursdays. She's not avoiding Clarke, or at least not avoiding her to the extent of sacrificing her schoolwork.  
  
On Sunday night, an email pops up in her inbox:

  
  
**Lexa Woods** <l.woods@gu.edu>  
to me  
  
Clarke,  
  
I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee sometime?  
  
L

  
  
  
_**III**_

 

Coffee's fine. It's good. Maybe a little better than good, but Clarke is left super confused. There's talk of what Lexa missed in class, talk of lacrosse games and Anya's broken finger, talk of Octavia's increasingly frequent hook-ups with Lincoln. There's talk of everything but distractions. They leave each other ninety minutes later with Lexa hurrying off to class and Clarke wondering if she should have asked for Lexa's phone number.  
  
That night she gets another email.

  
  
**Lexa Woods** <l.woods@gu.edu>  
to me  
  
Clarke,  
  
Thanks for meeting for coffee today. I'm out of practice with this, but would you like to go out some time?  
  
L

 

 

**_IV_ **

  
  
  
It's definitely a date. Clarke hadn't been sure, but when she'd confirmed and Lexa had asked her to meet at the one nice restaurant within walking distance of campus, Clarke knew it was a date. And then when she'd seen Lexa nervously waiting for her outside the restaurant, one hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans and the other rubbing back and forth against the back of her neck, she'd known for sure it was a date.  
  
Clarke's cheeks had blushed when Lexa stumbled over a few compliments about her dress and her hair. She'd felt the blush spread to her neck and down to her chest as they'd left dinner and Lexa grabbed her hand while they walked back toward campus. The entirety of her body warmed completely when Lexa asked if she'd like to come have a drink in her room. ("A nightcap," as though Lexa were testing out phrases she'd have to use in business school.)  
  
The nightcap isn't much - just one drink - but it's enough to loosen Lexa up and take more than a few glances at the deep neckline of Clarke's dress.  
  
And it's enough for Clarke to realize that she'll be waking up to Lexa the next morning.  
  
Lexa's delicate and gentle and generous. So generous. Clarke has not had a hook-up like this in a while. (If she can count this as a hook-up at all. She hasn't pined after any previous hook-ups like she's pined after Lexa.) Lexa's eyes widen when Clarke takes off her shirt, like she's never seen so much soft skin in her life.  
  
Clarke's not sure she's ever had someone spend so much time building her up. Long fingers glide across her body, the backs of her thighs, the sides of her abdomen, behind her neck and into her scalp. Gentle bruises will dot her chest, hips, and the inside of her thighs tomorrow as Lexa's lips pay reverence to every part of her body.  
  
She stops occasionally to look up at Clarke, questions in her eyes. Clarke worries that if she talks, she'll break, so she just nods and Lexa resumes - resumes teasing a nipple with her tongue, resumes tickling her neck with a kiss then a gentle bite, resumes trailing her fingers against her inner thigh as Clarke rocks her hips.  
  
When she finally dips inside, Clarke doesn't think she'll take long. She hooks one leg over the back of Lexa's thigh and can't even think about how with someone else she might be embarrassed because she has never done _that_ before. Lexa's fingers slowly tease against her opening and she can hear herself and how wet she is and she can't stop herself from a throaty moan and a hoarse 'please, Lexa' as she rocks her hips into a steady rhythm. Moments later she tips her head back and closes her eyes and breaks completely, Lexa's fingers pushing her over the edge and then catching her, gently letting her down. She can feel Lexa's eyes on her the whole time. This is not just a hook-up.  
  
When she pushes against Lexa and turns them over, it takes just moments before Lexa's tilting her own head back in a voiceless moan and clenching around her fingers. Clarke sleepily falls against Lexa's shoulder and buries her face in her neck, hand still warm between Lexa's thighs as they fall into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teach me to tumbl. i'll tumbl for you. 
> 
> factorsofex


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classes have been over for almost a month, exams for about two weeks, the lacrosse season for four days, and graduation for two. Lexa doesn't have a championship ring to show for their deep post-season run, but she doesn't seem too disappointed and Clarke's glad that Lexa can't resort to calling her a distraction anymore, not for lacrosse and not for graduation either.

_**I** _

 

Classes have been over for almost a month, exams for about two weeks, the lacrosse season for four days, and graduation for two. Lexa doesn't have a championship ring to show for their deep post-season run, but she doesn't seem too disappointed and Clarke's glad that Lexa can't resort to calling her a distraction anymore, not for lacrosse and not for graduation either.  
  
The only thing that's left is grad school. New York City. Columbia. Two years. Something with finance and as soon as Clarke hears the words 'hedge fund' she's checked out, but she ogles Lexa's quickly moving lips and her eyes lighting up and she's pretty sure Lexa knows she's checked out but she doesn't care.  
  
It's ten weeks away, eights weeks if you count moving and orientation, and Lexa's jittery and excited but not distracted. Definitely not distracted.  
  
When university housing kicked her out of her senior room in the middle of campus, Lexa had agreed to share a bed with Clarke for the summer. They'd been having fun and Lexa had always spent her summers on campus, what was one last summer? She'd complete the prerequisite reading for her first semester, catch up on all of her back issues of _The Economist_ , and maybe finish watching the last season of _Mad Men_. Clarke had signed on to teach art to summer campers, so if they couldn't while the day away in bed, Lexa could at least be productive.  
  
After five pm, all attempts at productivity usually drowned in a sea of lite beers and tequila shots, sometimes at bars, sometimes at home, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Without any obligations - no classes and no lacrosse - Lexa 'I'm not into the party scene' Woods was certainly _into_ the party scene. Business school wouldn't allow it, so she relished the opportunity. Anyway, Clarke was a good drinking partner.  
  
Anya and Octavia were pretty suitable drinking partners, too. Although both had other plans in other places, they coordinated a summer trip into their calendars to meet up with Lexa and Clarke.  
  
Anya drove in from the beach Friday afternoon and Octavia took the train down from her summer internship for the weekend. They'd somehow worked out an arrangement to split a hotel room - Lexa suspects Clarke linked them up because she's never seen the two of them have a conversation independently of Lexa or Clarke.  
  
They're a good five or six drinks into the evening and Anya's got Lexa's number at pool in the back room of the bar.  
  
"I thought this was just supposed to be a fun rendezvous, Lex." Anya says with that wicked smile as she takes another shot. "That's what you said at the graduation party."  
  
She looks over at Clarke talking to Octavia animatedly. "It was. It is. It's just. Look at her. I just want to be around her all the time."  
  
"Aw. Are you in love or something?"  
  
Lexa glares at her. "Come on, An." Lexa hasn't talked about love in years and Anya knows it's a sensitive subject.  
  
"Seriously, though." There's only one person who can talk to her like this and it's Anya. Anya knows how to push her into revelation and into exasperation. She's grateful for it, in a way. She won't push herself there.  
  
"Doesn't matter," she says as she leans over the table, surveying a shot. "It's over in a few weeks."  
  
Anya doesn't say anything for a while, just watches Lexa line up her shot and take it.  
  
"No distractions, right?"  
  
"No distractions."  
  
Clarke comes back from the bathroom the long way, ambling around the pool table as Lexa's lining up another shot. Her hips swish and she looks back over her shoulder to find Lexa's eyes on her and Anya shaking her head with a smile. Octavia's studying her as she gets closer.  
  
"What shirt is that? I don't think I've seen that one before."  
  
Clarke acts as though she doesn't hear her, but Octavia can see her looking out the corner of her eye, a smirk across her face.  
  
"Well that's cute."  
  
"What?" Clarke says, turning and smiling full-on.  
  
"You and Lexa."  
  
It's a game now. "What about us?"  
  
"Oh come on, Clarke. It's obvious that you two are doing more than just boning."  
  
"What? Seriously?" She can't contain the glow that creeps into her cheeks and adds to her beaming smile and she knows Octavia knows her too well. "It's just for the summer. She'll be in New York in a few weeks and I'll be working on my final portfolio next year and we can't."  
  
"Long distance relationships are a thing people do, you know."  
  
Clarke chances a look back over at Lexa and says in her direction, "We're not even in a short distance relationship, O."  
  
"Keep telling yourself that, Clarke," Octavia replies.  
  
Lexa makes her keep her t-shirt on that night in bed while she goes down on her. She's drunk and she says she likes seeing Clarke in her clothes and Clarke has to remind herself that there isn't even a short distance relationship. It doesn't matter that the t-shirt's actually pushed up around her neck and shoulders, exposing her breasts so that Lexa can reach up and gently twist a nipple between her long fingers.  
  
Each night they find themselves in a similar position, though never exactly the same. Lexa's head between her legs, Clarke's hands gently pulling at her hair. Lexa's fingers buried deep inside Clarke as she straddles and rocks atop Lexa's lap. Side-by-side, eye-to-eye gently easing into each other, sharing breathing each other's air. It's not a hook-up and it's not a relationship and Clarke sort of wants to define it, but she most definitely does not want to stop it.  
  
In the morning, Lexa's own t-shirt is riding up over her navel and her hair is splayed messily on Clarke's pillow and her own and Clarke can't stop herself from drinking her in. She's done this every morning for the last few weeks. She's always awake before Lexa these days - it's only a little bit about her summer camp job and mostly about how Lexa has completely shunned almost all of her responsible self now that it's summer and grad school is looming. Some days Clarke stays in exactly the position she wakes in to ensure that Lexa won't rouse. Some days, she slowly creeps up to rest her back against the headboard, while Lexa shifts and sighs sleepily. Some days, it's still dark and she's pulling on a pair of shorts and she can only sneak one quick glance at her before she's going to be late.  
  
But today's Saturday and Lexa's gentle breaths echo off her forehead and she wants to pull back just out of habit, but she reminds herself that she also doesn't have too many weeks left of just feeling Lexa. Feeling her breathe. Feeling the warmth of her body. Feeling wisps of her hair tickle her nose and neck. She runs a hand over her toned back and then slips it under Lexa's shirt and pulls her impossibly close.  
  
"I'm going to miss you," Clarke whispers against her neck.  
  
Lexa murmurs something unintelligible and kisses Clarke's forehead and it's so intimate that Clarke thinks that maybe she's agreeing.  
  
"Can we...," Lexa starts, voice hoarse and barely a whisper first thing in the morning, "I...Clarke," she can feel Lexa pull away and sigh against her. "Can we not do this, this morning?"  
  
"Do what?" Clarke wishes she could take it back, but the toothpaste is out of the tube, as her dad used to say and she can't put it back in. As a kid, she used to laugh when he'd say it, but now she only seems to think it around Lexa and it makes her sad more than anything else.  
  
"Talk about this." Lexa says, pulling back even more but with her eyes still closed. "About us."  
  
"I was just saying that I'm going to miss you."  
  
"But when you start talking about that," Lexa's eyes are open now and she's turning over and rolling out of Clarke's reach and looking up at the ceiling, "it's just a reminder that I'm a terrible person who thinks you'll be a distraction from concentrating on my school work."  
  
"I never said that."  
  
"I did. In as many words, at least. And every time you tell me that you miss me it reminds me that I said those things and it makes me feel awful."  
  
"So don't say those things. So don't miss me."  
  
"What do you mean?" She turns to look at Clarke and all Clarke can do is hope.  
  
"What if we...you know?"  
  
"No, Clarke." Eyes are back on the ceiling and hope fades.  
  
"You don't even want to try it?"  
  
"I can't risk it," clipped, impassive, aloof. "Look, we're not in a relationship. We haven't committed to anything. If there's still something there in a couple years when I'm done, let's try it. But I've never been great at balance. I can't do both and I need to focus on what's in front of me. I'm sorry."  
  
Clarke wants to yell at her that she is literally right in front of her, but she knows it's not what she means and she wishes she had to be at work right now instead.  
  
While she's in the shower, Lexa disappears to the gym with just a note scrawled and left on the kitchen counter. She doesn't come home that night and when Octavia comes over later, she's alone and she knows that Lexa will be staying with Anya, and Octavia will be sleeping next to her. At least it's just one night. Anya and Octavia will be headed out of town by this time tomorrow and Lexa won't have her respite in Anya or her hotel room.

 

  
**_II_ **

  
  
Summers pass too quickly. Always. It's a rule.  
  
There's only two weeks left before Lexa moves and Clarke is consumed by it. Lexa doesn't seem phased. At least not too terribly much. She talks more about New York and school and Clarke thinks that maybe she catches Lexa looking at her from across the room a little bit more, but she also admits that it could just be wishful thinking.  
  
But Clarke. Some afternoons, when Clarke gets off work and Lexa's at the gym and she's all alone in her suddenly huge room, Clarke allows herself to think for a moment that this is what her life is going to be like and she feels like she's choking. She's gasping for air and barely holding herself up and she can't stop herself.  
  
It all comes to a head. It's bound to when Clarke spends so many of her waking moments submerged in it.  
  
It shouldn't be a surprise that it comes after a night of drinking. There's a bar close to campus that plays old school dance music on Wednesday nights and offers three dollar shots of well liquors. It's a dangerous place. They've already had their share of memorable and regrettable nights spent there this summer, including one night ending in Lexa stumbling into the DJ booth and getting them both kicked out and one night ending in Clarke pushed up against the wall of the dark alley out back, Lexa's hand buried between her legs.  
  
This night is neither memorable nor regrettable, at least before the bar closes. It's definitely a few too many of those three dollar shots that have Clarke itching to pull Lexa on top of her when they get home. She doesn't have enough shots to stop the bright red blush creeping up her cheeks when she whispers to Lexa what she wants to do to her. And Lexa has had just enough to ask "Are you sure?" before climbing up to hold onto the headboard and rest her thighs on either side of Clarke's head.  
  
They don't fall asleep right away and Clarke struggles to find a comfortable position in Lexa's arms. When she turns to face Lexa, she finds green eyes on her, still open and questioning.  
  
It's the alcohol that has Clarke speaking before she can think about where this conversation will go. "Look, I know that this isn't going to last" she says, pulling herself out of Lexa's arms. "We've already had the talk. You don't have to feel bad about letting me down. I'm expecting it. I'm just waiting for the day."  
  
Lexa looks at her and then closes her eyes for what feels like ages and Clarke has that toothpaste out of the tube feeling again.  
  
"I don't...I'm not sure..." Lexa tangles her fingers in her hair and huffs, "What do you want me to say here?"  
  
Clarke can't help the sadness that seeps into her voice. "I feel like I'm just hanging on and waiting for the end. That's what it feels like to me. I'm just counting down the days until you decide that our time is up and I'm a distraction again."  
  
Lexa's eyebrows and mouth screw up in frustration. "Why am I the one deciding that our time is up?"  
  
"You're the one who said we can't just try," and now it's tinged with frustration, "You're the one who thinks I'm a distraction."  
  
She wants Lexa to take it all back but she knows she won't.  
  
"We can't just enjoy this moment, Clarke?"  
  
"I wish I could."  
  
"Come on, babe," Lexa says, as she reaches out to tether Clarke, to make sure she doesn't get carried too far away, "let me help you enjoy this moment. Right here, with me."

"Lex," her voice softens. It's the babe that does it. She can't call Clarke babe. And Clarke can't call her Lex. But they do.  
  
Clarke climbs atop Lexa and Lexa returns the favor and Clarke's glad she let herself be tethered for the moment. But now Clarke's barely slept and after several post-coital hours of Lexa curled against her, she gets up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. In the early hours of the morning, when she doesn't return to bed, Lexa finds her tucked against the arm of the couch looking out the window, awaiting the sunrise. Lexa sits down next to her.  
  
"That was the last time, wasn't it?" She says. She's not looking at Clarke and she's not touching Clarke and if this doesn't feel like the end.  
  
"Do you want it to be?" Clarke doesn't know what else to say. Today or two weeks from today, she can't live with this weight any more. The tether feels more like an anchor.  
  
"Of course I don't want it to be, Clarke."  
  
"I don't think I can live through these next few days with you, Lexa."  
  
Lexa looks down at the ground now and her voice breaks, just barely. "I can tell."  
  
"I'm sorry," the roles have changed a bit. Clarke's had time to think about it. Too much time. It's her voice that's become emotionless, her eyes that are cold.  
  
"I'm sorry, too."  
  
"Good," Clarke says. " _You_ did this."  
  
Lexa knows.

 

  
  
**_III_ **  
  
****

 

**Clarke Griffin** <c.griffin@gu.edu>  
to me  
  
Lex,  
  
I miss you. It's late and I'm drunk and I'm sorry for sending this but I just can't stop myself. I've already stoppd myself too many times this semester anyway. I'm going to be in New York this weekend, a few of my pieces were picked up by this gallery in Brooklyn and O and Lincoln and I are going to come up for the openning. Its's in Williamsburg and it's at 8 and I hope you might stop by, but if you don't it's ok. I just miss you and I want to see you again.  
  
Clarke

  
  
  
Clarke's tipsy but not drunk - definitely not drunk - when she catches a familiar sight at the gallery. She thinks it's familiar, at least. She's the same height but a little more filled out. Not 'filled out' like there's a grad school 'Freshman Fifteen,' but more like a 'Crossfit Fifteen.' And gone are the t-shirt and jeans Clarke had become so used to, replaced instead with gray slacks and a cashmere cardigan with a hint of a blue oxford poking from the sleeve. It's the hair that confirms it, though. That hasn't changed. A little bit of a wave to it, a few haphazard braids here and there to keep unkempt strands out of her face.  
  
She flashes back to the lacrosse party a year ago, when everything changed, and she just wants to stand along the wall and admire this Lexa a little bit longer. It's a tumbler with a finger of whiskey instead of a bottle of cheap bear, but Clarke catches her putting her lips and the faintest trace of tongue to the lip of the glass and she pulls her own lip between her teeth. Maybe they couldn't do long distance, but tonight she was only a short distance away.  
  
She can't admire her too long, though, as Lexa turns, looking a little lost before she spots Clarke across the room. She stands still and meets Clarke's eyes and just smiles and Clarke can't help but cut across the room, crowds be damned.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hi yourself," Lexa replies softly.  
  
Clarke rewards her with a shy smile. "Thanks for coming."  
  
"I wouldn't miss it, Clarke. I'm proud of you."  
  
"Looks like I should be pretty proud of you, too," Clarke returns, lifting her hand up to gently trace the collar of Lexa's shirt. Clarke only barely hears the sound of Lexa's faint gasp as her hand moves towards her. "This looks expensive."  
  
"Gotta look the part to play the part, you know." Clarke liked Lexa in a t-shirt and jeans but Clarke adores Lexa in this. She thinks how smooth and soft the fabric would feel if she could push the cardigan off of Lexa's shoulders. She thinks about what that 'Crossfit Fifteen' might look like if she could unbutton Lexa's shirt and dig her fingers into Lexa's sides.  
  
She hesitates for a moment, lost in her thoughts, before replying. "I guess so."  
  
"How's school?"  
  
"Still there," Clarke replies with a forced smile. "Nearly failed French 102 last semester, but I'm hanging in there."  
  
"I don't know why you saved all of these requirements for the end, but 'glass houses' I guess," she replies with a grin and Clarke can't help but fall into it completely.  
  
"Do you have plans after this? Tonight, I mean?" Clarke asks. Lexa's dressed up and she's dressed up and they've never really done _this_. They went on dates to cheap restaurants just off-campus and they've been to movies and bars, but they've never spent this much time and effort getting ready for one another. Clarke decides that she wants to feel like an adult tonight, even if she does have one more semester of college left.  
  
"I was hoping you might want to do something." Lexa says shyly.  
  
"Yes," Clarke says immediately.  
  
Lexa turns around like she's just remembered something and asks, "What about Octavia and Lincoln?"  
  
"They're meeting up with some of Lincoln's friends in the East Village. We could do that if you want?"  
  
Lexa considers for a moment. Then, "East Village isn't really my thing. Would you like to come uptown with me and check out one of my favorite bars?"  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
"Just to warn you, it's not close," she says, as she pulls on the jacket she's been carrying over her arm.  
  
"You had to come far tonight?" Clarke knows she had to come a long way. She's no stranger to New York geography. She's looked up the distance between Williamsburg and Columbia a few times since she learned of the gallery showing.  
  
"Yeah, took about an hour. You up for that? We can go somewhere else, if you want, but I do think you'd like this place."  
  
Clarke knows what she's after. Uptown isn't just the location of Lexa's favorite bar, it's also where she lives. Lexa may not be willing to outright ask if she'd like to spend the night yet, but Clarke's planning to wear her down.  
  
"Let's go," she says as she heads to a back room to grab her coat and her bag and say her goodnights.

It doesn't quite take an hour and they have to stop and change trains once, but Clarke's grateful for the change when Lexa grabs her hand and leads her down a corridor to another platform. She doesn't let go after that and Clarke's torn between hoping she won't ever let go and hoping she won't let go just for this weekend.  
  
The bar is nice. There's soft music playing, glasses clink quietly. There are definitely no lite beers on draught here and the tequila is meant to be sipped and savored. Lexa sips whiskey from a tumbler again and Clarke wonders when that started happening. Clarke opts for champagne because she knows it'll make her feel giggly and bubbly and alive and she wants to feel all of those things deep into the night.  
  
Indeed she does feel all of those things. The alcohol fuels the flame and Clarke's leaning back against Lexa's headboard as Lexa crawls on top of her. There's something a little different in the way that she looks at Clarke, the way that she touches her. It's thrilling and indulgent and Clarke finds herself asking for more than she ever has before. Lexa's fingers dip inside her, then smear her wetness just under her breasts. She grabs Clarke's ankles and pulls her roughly down the bed, then lines them up so that their centers meet and she hisses in surprise and pleasure. Lexa teases and teases until Clarke feels like she can't catch her breath and she's breaking apart. And when Lexa tips them both over the edge she wonders if Lexa's grown to know her this well, or if Lexa hasn't forgotten how to read her body, or if Lexa's been learning from someone else. And once that last thought grips her, on the precipice of climax and then rolling toward sleep, she can't undo it. She knows it's her ruin.  
  
Lexa's apartment is small. She hadn't noticed Friday night when they'd barreled in. In fact, they may not have even turned on a light. And yesterday it didn't feel small, just cozy. They'd stayed in until the sun set, lips swollen with kisses and bodies aching but soothed by one another.  
  
Now, though, on Sunday morning, with Lexa typing at a tiny desk just inches from the bed they've shared the past two nights, the apartment just feels small. It's New York, so of course it's supposed to feel small, but it's about more than just the space. Thoughts from the other night return to haunt her. She wonders who else has been in this room, shared this bed. She wonders whether it's their ghosts that are crowding the space, hemming her in.  
  
She doesn't even realize that she's crying until she hears Lexa clear her throat.  
  
Lexa's turned around from her desk and looking at her, reading glasses falling down the bridge of her nose just barely, hair pulled up into a messy bun. Lexa doesn't lean toward her, doesn't touch her. She looks past her, out the small window above the bed. A fine sheen of sleet pellets the windows.  
  
"This was a bad idea," Lexa says.  
  
"Yeah." Clarke's not sure what else to say. She's right.  
  
"I didn't think it was at first, but now..." Lexa's eyes tear away from the window and look down at Clarke, hoping she'll finish the thought. Hoping that they're on the same page.  
  
"Now...yeah."  
  
She doesn't finish the thought and Lexa feels like she has to, like maybe Clarke will email her again after graduation telling her that she'll be in New York for the summer and asking her to come to another showing at some gallery, maybe in the Village this time. And as fun as Friday night and Saturday have been, she woke early this morning with her mind not on the the pale skin peeking out from under her sheets or the sound of Clarke's laughter, but instead with her mind on the reading she should have done Saturday afternoon and the paper that's due tomorrow and summer internship deadlines that are looming.  
  
"I think maybe we're headed in two different directions." It's the best she can say, Lexa thinks, in order to get the point across. Clarke's already crying and she doesn't want this to turn into an argument or a venting session.  
  
Clarke doesn't want to process it, so she just nods her head.  
  
"I'm sorry, Clarke."  
  
Clarke wants to spit that same line from the summer back in her face, but she can't because she knows it was her this time. She did this. She emailed Lexa, she agreed to go uptown with Lexa, she spent the night. She slips off the white oxford she's been sleeping in the past two nights and finds the spare change of clothes she'd packed in her purse on Friday. That evidence is damning enough - she planned this all along. She did this to herself.  
  
She's just about to get into a cab when she answers a call from Octavia.  
  
"I'm on my way, O," she whispers amid the din of traffic and her voice cracks and she can hear Octavia asking her if she's ok but she just hangs up.  
  
She's next to Octavia and Lincoln on a train to their sleepy college town just an hour later.

 

  
**_IV_ **

  
  
There are times when she thinks about Lexa, but those times are more and more rare.  
  
At first, when she headed back to campus for her final semester, she nearly drowned in her. Were it not for Octavia, she might have even taken the semester off to regroup. But now, she only thinks about her sometimes. Sometimes, it's when she's pulling on an old t-shirt late at night and she just wants to say goodnight to someone. (She tells herself that anyone will do.) Sometimes, it's when the boy she's hooking up with looks up at her from between her legs and she thinks she sees her green, questioning eyes. And sometimes it's when everything seems to be going wrong, when she can't bring herself to pull out her pencils to start sketching again, and she just wants to blame someone for still feeling this way.  
  
But those times are more and more rare.


	3. Chapter 3

**_I_**  
  
  
A lot can happen in five years.  
  
Clarke doesn't think about her anymore, but if she did, she might imagine that Lexa's in some luxury skyscraper in lower Manhattan taking phone call after phone call on a headset while powerfully telling men in similar well-tailored suits to 'buy' and 'sell.' And, while there are plenty of inaccuracies in that vision, in reality, she's not too far off from the main idea.  
  
Lexa doesn't think about her anymore (not much anyway and only when a flash of wavy blonde hair disappears around a corner), but if she did, she might imagine Clarke with a small gallery in some quaint beach town, paint flecks dotting her clothes, and a golden retriever curling up at her feet while she sits at the register. In reality, Lexa's not too terribly close to the main idea at all.  
  
Octavia calls it 'grinding,' what Clarke does. She's at the local public school by two to set up for her afterschool classes that run until six. Then, Wednesday through the weekend, she's on the metro straight after and headed to the bar to set up her space for the evening. Depending on how many shots she's indulged in with customers, or whether there's a particularly beautiful or handsome or just willing customer, she heads back to her apartment around four in the morning. Whatever time she has left she can use to paint or sketch or sculpt. When inspiration strikes. It's hard to be inspired when your head pounds from the night before, or when all you can think about is whether you're prepared enough for the next job. She's found herself doing less and less art and she wonders if it's just not meant to be anymore.  
  
The bar is what pays rent and the afterschool job keeps her from falling into a black hole of despair or debauchery. Art used to revive her, but now it feels like the only reason she's holding on to it is because she spent four years doing it in undergrad. There's either no time or there's no inspiration. She doesn't exactly know what it is, but she's not searching her soul to figure it out either.  
  
It's nights like tonight when artistic expression and inspiration are furthest from her thoughts. It's Saturday night and she will never take a Saturday night off, ever. On her best nights, she can make rent in just one night. The DJ's bass is all the way up and all of the VIP tables are full and there are no fewer than four bachelorette parties with pink penis straws jutting out from all of their cups. Clarke's bar is packed, as usual, but after working in the industry for so many years, she knows how to toe the line between serving customers quickly and not wearing herself too thin.  
  
"Clarke, right?"  
  
She turns into the voice. It sounds vaguely familiar, like it might be someone she spent the night with or went on a date with a few months ago. But then she sees Anya and her breath catches.  
  
"Yeah. Anya. It's...uh..." Now could be one of those times where she apologizes, looks at the crowd, shrugs her shoulders and the conversation stops. Or, it could be a quick break. Not long enough to lose customers, but just long enough to have a few words. (She doesn't stop for many people, but for most of the people she  _does_ stop for, those few words end in a phone number or a plan for when she gets off.)  
  
"Good to see you, Clarke," Anya's looking at her with wide eyes and her mouth gapes open a little and even though she hasn't seen Anya in ages, she doesn't think she's ever seen her this nonplussed.  
  
"You too," Clarke replies, ignoring a customer shouting at her from down the bar.  
  
She doesn't know how that stupid pink sash and tiara aren't the first thing she noticed when she saw Anya there, but now her eyes are locked on a glittery 'Bachelorette' that's embroidered into the sash.  
  
"I guess congratulations are in order," Clarke says, pointing to the sash.  
  
"Oh, yeah. This stupid thing." Anya looks down like she forgot she had the sash on. "If they didn't make me take a shot every time I took it off, it would have been in the trash by now."  
  
Clarke laughs. She always liked Anya.  
  
"Well how about something on me?" Clarke suggests, setting a shot glass on the bar.  
  
"Only if you'll join me." Make that two.  
  
She smiles. Technically, bartenders aren't supposed to drink with the customers, but no one follows that rule. They settle on tequila for old times' sake and Clarke can't help but wonder if Lexa and Anya are still close. If they are, she knows what that means.  
  
"Thanks, Clarke. I guess, I'll..." Anya fumbles for a moment, "see you around?"  
  
"Congrats again, Anya," Clarke says diplomatically. She doesn't want her eyes to follow Anya back to where her group is, she doesn't mean to look for her, and then...  
  
Clarke is not happy to see her. Not happy to see her run her hands through her hair before pulling it back into a bun. Not happy to see her long, elegant neck exposed from beneath her hair. Not happy to see her forearms flex under the rolled up sleeves of her oxford shirt. Not happy to see her smiling from across the room at a pack of beautiful girls. Clarke wonders which one will be in Lexa’s bed tonight (and subtly kicked out of her bed the next morning). Clarke wonders if she does that type of thing now. (Because Clarke does that type of thing now.) That confident smile, that flirty look - that's new - and she looks like she does do that type of thing now.  
  
She hadn’t thought about her in such a long time.  
  
The bar's busy but she gets a few chances to sneak glances at Lexa. If it weren't for the bottle service, she wonders if they would have run into each other at some point in the night. She wonders how Anya ran into her. Maybe she needed to escape. She wouldn't put it past Anya to run away from her own celebration.  
  
She wonders if she should try to bump into Lexa on a quick break to the bathroom, just to see what happens. Lexa's not college-Lexa any more. It looks like business school has paid off, literally. She can see Lexa's watch glitter from across the room and Clarke knows that the bottles on their table are high-end champagne and vodka.  
  
She doesn't take long to think about it, but she wonders how Lexa had dismantled her so completely. They'd never really been together. Never had a defined relationship. They hadn't even hooked up for that long - six months maybe? And yet here she was, gazing at her from across the room, thinking about the girls Lexa might hook up with, the time they spent away from one another, what she might be like now. And there Lexa was, threatening to steal her way back into Clarke's mind once again.  
  
Truthfully, she doesn't have much time to think about it. The bar's at capacity and she's struggling to hear drink orders over the din of the DJ.  
  
It's nearly last call and the crowd is thinning when she curses herself for drinking those two bottles of water. Even bartenders have to go to the bathroom. She looks up, back to where she'd seen Lexa before, and the group is gone. Just a few mostly empty bottles of champagne remain, along with a couple of those pink penis straws. She can't imagine Lexa drinking out of one of them.  
  
She expects, since their table is empty, that they're gone.  
  
She is, of course, wrong.  
  
It isn't until she's leaving the bathroom that she realizes it. She's washing her hands at one of the sinks and about to look up and check her makeup when she hears her voice.  
  
"Clarke?"  
  
She considers not answering. She could have a doppelganger out there, she thinks.  
  
"Clarke?" She hears again, and Lexa breaks out of the short line to come closer.  
  
"Hi," she says to Lexa in the mirror. "Lexa. Hi."  
  
"Wow," Lexa seems genuinely surprised and she guesses that Anya kept her mouth closed about running into her at the bar earlier. She wonders why. "This is crazy."  
  
"Yeah," she agrees, turning toward the paper towels.  
  
"I did not expect to see you here."  
  
"Yeah," and then Clarke mumbles, "or ever."  
  
Lexa doesn't hear and is right behind her when she turns back toward the door. "How are you?" Lexa touches her forearm, just a light touch, gentle, but it feels so heavy.  
  
"I'm..." she starts. She doesn't know how she is. She's surprised. She's curious. She's angry.  
  
She's saved by one of the bar-backs barging into the bathroom.  
  
"Griff, come on. Bout to make last call and we need you to help close these tabs."  
  
"Oh. Oh you work here. Oh, sorry, ok I'll let you go." Lexa says, pulling her hand back. Clarke turns to walk toward the door. And then, "Can I, can we talk when you get off?"  
  
Clarke turns to look back at her but doesn't answer.  
  
She doesn't know.

Lexa's alone, leaning up against the brick outside of the bar when she and Raven walk out. Lexa must have abandoned Anya because the only evidence of the bachelorette party seems to be one of those damned straws peeking out of her shirt pocket. She sees Lexa push herself off the wall and come toward her. Raven stands with her for a moment, protective, before Clarke gives her a nod and Raven splits to head home.  
  
"Hi," Lexa says quietly.  
  
"Hi yourself." It's still their thing, even if Clarke says it coldly and wishes she could take it back.  
  
"We didn't really get a chance to talk inside and I wanted to see..."  
  
"What do you want from me, Lexa?" Clarke spits.  
  
"I don't know," Lexa looks taken aback, like she wasn't expecting Clarke to feel this way after so many years. "I guess I wanted to see how you're doing. I tried...," she starts, then thinks better of it, "I've thought about you."  
  
"You've thought about me?" Clarke's still angry, but she's also curious about what Lexa's thought.  
  
"Yeah, I mean..." Lexa almost reaches out to touch her again, but the way that Clarke looks at her warns her off. "I used to think about you a lot, but then I got to this point where I figured maybe I just would never see you again."  
  
"Well I hope I wasn't a distraction."  
  
Lexa huffs in frustration. "Clarke come on."  
  
"No, you come on, Lexa," she can feel her voice raise and the remnants of those few shots of tequila from earlier threaten to boil over into full rage. Her boss saves her, though, as she pulls the bar's door shut behind her and locks up.  
  
"You good, Griff?" she asks.  
  
"Yeah, thanks." She and Lexa both look at the ground, embarrassed to be caught doing whatever it is they're doing.  
  
"Ok goodnight. Get home safe."  
  
"I will."  
  
They stand in silence for a few moments, Lexa looking at the ground while Clarke looks at her. She's still so controlled. And so beautiful. And so very detached. Maybe that's what it's always been about Lexa, there was always something so perplexing about her that Clarke wanted to figure out and just couldn't.  
  
Then the roles change, Clarke looking at the wall while Lexa looks at her. When the light on the awning outside the bar hits Lexa right, she still looks at Clarke with those bright green, questioning eyes.  
  
Clarke's never wanted to grow up. Of course bills and other real-world responsibilities have never appealed to her, but neither has the idea of a typical adulthood. Maybe that's why she's still just barely holding onto her dream to be an artist as she supports herself with two part-time jobs. She thinks that maybe Lexa knew that intuitively and that's why she broke things off between them. Maybe not. Maybe she's just feeling down.  
  
That said, there is something to be said for growing up. In college, she'd liked hook-ups enough, but they were sloppy and immature and sometimes just about having a connection with someone. Growing up, post-college sex has just gotten better and better. Clarke has no shame in asking for what she wants or taking matters into her own hands to get it. She feels like she finally knows what she wants, which improved things immensely following college. And now that Lexa's spotted her and she can't pull her eyes away, now that Lexa's touch has sparked something deep inside her (even if it is tinged with anger), she's sure she knows what she wants tonight.  
  
"Can I walk you home?" Lexa finally asks and Clarke is a little relieved because she doesn't have to ask instead.  
  
Still, the anger doesn't die quickly. "I can walk myself home."  
  
"I know you can," Lexa says calmly, "but I'm asking."  
  
Clarke considers. Lexa has wormed her way back into her brain. She blames it on the tequila and the adrenaline from the night. Those two things work her up in a way that most foreplay can't. And if it's not Lexa, she's probably going to call the guy who lives below her. The last time they hooked up she'd told herself it would be their last time.  
  
"Why don't you walk me back to your hotel?" she says, instead. She wants to keep her distance from Lexa just the same, which is why it can't be at her apartment, in her bedroom. She hasn't had time to fully process whatever this is or whatever this might be, but she knows that if Lexa's in her bed tomorrow morning, with her hair ruffled across her pillow and her tattooed bicep flung over Clarke's comforter, she'll struggle mightily to get that vision back out of her mind each morning thereafter.  
  
"My hotel?" Lexa asks, brow furrowed.  
  
"Yeah, where you're staying with the bachelorette party."  
  
"I live here."  
  
"Really?" And Clarke's forgot about her earlier request for just an instant.  
  
Lexa smiles and she feels the tiniest fracture inside. "Yeah really. You don't need to live in Manhattan to manage money. I can do that from my bed in just my underwear if I want."  
  
And that brings Clarke back. "Ok. Well let's go." Clarke turns to walk, ready for Lexa to lead her.  
  
"You were just seconds away from unleashing on me earlier," Lexa says. "Now you want to come back to my place?"  
  
"Are you going to make me regret this?" Clarke asks with a tinge of frustration.  
  
"I hope not, but," Lexa pauses and looks at her with pure concern in her eyes, "how much have you had to drink tonight, Clarke?"  
  
"Well let's see, I made $450, closed out 34 bar tabs, cashed out all of the bar backs, and found time to have an argument with you. How's that?"  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"It means I'm fine, Lexa. I am giving my consent. I want to fuck you tonight."  
  
"Oh." She's got this look on her face that's part shock and part pure lust and Clarke wants to high five herself for that look.  
  
"When I said let's go back to your place, I didn't mean for tea and cookies."  
  
"Right."  
  
"So?"  
  
Clarke wonders if she can take it back. Maybe Lexa has a girlfriend now. Or roommates. Or a kid. Maybe she's actually not the kind of girl Clarke thought she was and Lexa's going to insist that they go on a date or something. Clarke wants to vomit at the thought.  
  
"Right," she says, that look still etched on her face. "Let's go."  
  
  
  
The cab pulls up at a tall, shiny building that could just as easily be in Manhattan and Clarke decides that she doesn't want to talk about what she's been up to if it comes up. She's not sure if it's because she's embarrassed or because she can't help but compare her failure to Lexa's success or because she just wants to be done with conversation in general.  
  
So, in the elevator, when Lexa pushes the button for sixteen, she drops her bag and pushes Lexa up against the mirrored wall and kisses her for the first time in five years. It's rushed and messy because Clarke's still so angry at her and she just wants to make Lexa fall apart. She wants to show Lexa that she can seep into her mind and lay waste to it, too. Lexa kisses her back and she matches Clarke's fire and all Clarke can think about is if she wants to undo Lexa with her hands or with her mouth or with both.  
  
Once they get into Lexa's apartment, she doesn't expect for Lexa to undo her.  
  
“Things have changed, Clarke.”  
  
She can’t get over the sound of Lexa saying her name. That hasn't changed. The way her voice rumbles low in her throat. The way she pays reverence to each syllable of her name.  
  
Clarke has to admit - even more has changed than she expected. Five years ago, Lexa never would have had her bent over the kitchen island, skirt haphazardly pushed up over her back and panties slung to the side. Five years ago, Lexa never would have had two fingers slowly pushing into her and rutting her front against her ass while gritting out harsh breaths through her teeth and leaving marks on her skin with her fingers. Five years ago, Lexa never would have simultaneously lost and remained in control so magnificently.  
  
She doesn't miss the old Lexa. (At least not while Clarke's elbows dig into marble countertop.)  
  
She pushes herself back to meet Lexa's strokes, only to find her pulling away and muttering something to herself. If her head wasn't throbbing from alcohol, from lust, from frustration, she might have heard it. Instead she groans loudly as she feels Lexa still, just barely inside her.  
  
"What do you want, Clarke?"  
  
She can't answer. She pushes her hips back again as her arms give way, resting her head against the cool marble. Lexa pulls her fingers out almost completely, hips slowing down but never stopping their push and pull against Clarke.  
  
"What do you want, Clarke?" She says again, this time more firm, expecting an answer.  
  
“Fuck," she breathes out, "I want you.” She means for it to sound more sultry than it does. She means to say more at the end. At least she thinks she does. She thinks she means to say "I want you to..." but her voice gets caught in her throat at the end and she hopes Lexa doesn’t notice. Or if she does notice, Clarke hopes that she doesn’t stop.  
  
Her fingers push in hard and Clarke's head thumps against the cool countertop as a loud moan breaks free. If they were in her apartment, she'd be biting a pillow and praying that her next door neighbor won't bang against her wall again. Instead, she hears the moan echo off the bare walls and dark wooden floors of Lexa's apartment as Lexa quickens her pace.  
  
It's definitely the alcohol, but she laughs to herself just before sleep as she thinks about measuring her life in college-Lexa orgasms versus adult-Lexa orgasms.  
  
When she wakes in the morning, Lexa's still asleep and Clarke's still a little drunk and her inner thighs are sore and she decides she'd rather sober up alone and at home than risk saying something awful in front of Lexa as she wakes. She picks up her panties from the kitchen floor and scribbles a quick note to Lexa along with her phone number before she carefully pulls the door shut and hails a cab.

 

 

_You get home ok?_

 

 

She didn't expect to see Lexa begin correspondence so quickly. She remembers from the bar last night that there was something about the way Lexa carried herself that oozed confidence in a way she wasn't sure she liked. The more she sobers, wrapped in her sheets and sipping a mug of tea, idly sketching, the more she thinks she's become another notch in adult-Lexa's bedpost. Still, she thinks, it'd be rude not to respond.  


  
_Yes._  


  
She hits reply quickly, then can't stop herself from adding more.  


  
_It was good to see you._

 

_You too.  
Want to grab coffee sometime? Wish we could have this morning._

 

 

Clarke can't put her finger on it, but something about that response angers her, maybe it's the question and how reminiscent it is of their time together in college. She slides her phone along the window sill and out of reach. She doesn't want coffee and she's glad she left before Lexa woke and she doesn't want to second guess herself.  
  
  
  
  
**_II_**  
  
  
  
For a time she wonders why she even left Lexa with her number if she doesn't want to see her again, but then she's not so sure about that either. Lexa doesn't give up, though, and not a few days later she sees another message.

 

_We ok?  
I'd like to see you again._

 

_We're fine.  
I'm just not into the multiple-night-stand thing right now._

 

_How about I take you out then?_

  
_No Lexa._

  
  
Sometimes they text. She freely admits that. Well, maybe not so freely. Octavia threatens to grab her phone one day when it won't stop buzzing and Clarke won't touch or even look at her breakfast. Sometimes they text when they're sober and sometimes they text when they are decidedly not sober.

 

_hiiy  
hi_

_Hi yourself_

_what are udoing 2nite_

 

_Catching up on my binge watching_

_Netflix and chll_

 

_Are you asking me?_

  
_whos over thre?_

  
_Just me_

  
_can it eb just me and u_

  
_Come on over_

  
_txt me ur addrs again_

  
  
The text messages come in haphazard intervals. Some days, Lexa's wedged herself firmly into Clarke's mind and Clarke relents and texts her. Lexa almost always responds. It seems that mostly Lexa's satisfied to let Clarke take the lead, but some nights Lexa texts her first. Only occasionally does Clarke respond. Some nights, when Clarke's feeling especially heady, she sends Lexa dirty text messages. Lexa always responds to those.  


  
_Let's play a game._

 

_Ok. Shoot._

 

_20 Questions_

 

_That's a lot of questions._

 

_Fine, 5 questions.  
1 - When's the last time you got yourself off?_

 

_Diving right in, huh?  
I'll only answer if you answer the same question._

 

_Fine._

 

_Yesterday morning._

 

_In the morning?_

 

_Yeah. You should know how I get in the morning sometimes._

 

_I guess I remember that._

 

_Now you._

 

_About a week ago._

 

_Gotcha.  
Do I get to ask a question now?_

 

_No.  
2 - How did you do it?_

 

_With my fingers. In bed._

 

_Well that's not very exciting._

  
_I'll try to be more impressive next time.  
You?_

 

 

Clarke can't decide if she wants to make Lexa sweat or if she wants to be as demure as possible. They're already gone pretty far down this path so she throws caution to the wind.

 

 

_I put two fingers inside of myself._

 

_Oh.  
I could have come over and done that for you._

 

_I didn't want you to._

 

_I see._

 

_Next question._  
_3 - What were you thinking about?_

 

_Clarke. You're not playing fair._

 

_Does that mean you're not going to answer the question?_

 

_I'll answer it. You're going to answer it too, right?_

 

_I will.  
But you first._

 

_I was thinking about you.  
Fucking you, Clarke._

 

  
It is as she hoped it would be. Clarke's played the game and played it well. She's had some practice with others over these years, but it feels especially gratifying to manipulate Lexa so masterfully. She starts to type out her own response until she sees those three little dots that indicate that Lexa's still typing.

 

_On your hands and knees.  
On my bed.  
With my strap-on._

  


And Lexa turns the tables in an instant.

  
  
_Oh.  
You have one of those?_

 

_Is that question 4?_

  
_Fine. Yes._

  
_You first. Question 3._

  
  
Clarke weighs her options. She'd been curious tonight and interested in seeing Lexa, but she hadn't planned on divulging any secrets - particularly about the way that Lexa has seeped back into her mind so absolutely. It had taken her nearly four years to rid herself of Lexa. The first two years, she caromed between missing Lexa, holding out for her, and shunning her completely. Aside from the last semester of school, the third year was actually the hardest. She couldn't stop thinking about Lexa's offer - that maybe they could be together after grad school was over. It had been two years and Lexa had finished grad school, and only her dignity kept her from sending Lexa an email. Even her dignity got shaky at times (months later Octavia forced her to delete several unsent drafts).  
  
Clarke thinks again about her dignity. About how it's not as resolute as it once was, because she wants to tell her. But then again, maybe this isn't an issue of dignity.  


  
_I was thinking about you too._

  
_I think you owe me a little bit more after all I told you, right?_

 

  
Clarke hates those words.  _Owe me_. She types out a reply before thinking too deeply about what could come next.

  
  
_I don't owe you anything._

 

_You're right.  
Poor choice of words.  
I'm sorry._

 

  
There's no response for a while and Clarke wonders if she's scared Lexa away. She figures it doesn't matter that much, but she still wants to know the answer to the question she asked before.

 

  
_So?_

  
_So?_

 

_Question 4  
Do you own one?_

_Yes._

 

 

Clarke doesn't bother to wait for Lexa to ask that question in return. She immediately types:

 

 

_Can I come over?_

  
_Yes._

 

  
Within twenty minutes, Clarke's at her door and Lexa's mouth gapes at the thought of what's to come.  
  
She's changed into the clothes she sleeps in and Clarke pulls her by the hem of her undershirt into the bedroom and Lexa imagines that she looks like one of those little puppies you see in cartoons, following after with wide eyes and drool pooling on the floor.  
  
"You only get one question tonight and I want you to ask me," Clarke says, her voice just above a hoarse whisper. Lexa's always loved Clarke's voice.  
  
"Ask you to..." Lexa's voice trails off and Clarke thinks maybe Lexa's not as well-versed as her in talking dirty. In college, Clarke remembers, Lexa often couldn't even bring herself to make a noise when she came. She'd hold her breath and a vein would pop out in her neck as she'd tilt her head back and Clarke loved to watch every minute of it.  
  
"Ask to fuck me."  
  
Lexa licks her lips and pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. Lexa used to do that as she looked up from between Clarke's legs and Clarke feels herself crack just the tiniest bit more at the memory so vividly returning. "Can I fuck you, Clarke?"  
  
"Fuck me, Lexa," Clarke answers through hooded eyes. She's sitting on the edge of Lexa's bed as Lexa stands between her legs.  
  
Lexa draws her face up so that their eyes meet. "How do you want me to fuck you, Clarke?"  
  
Clarke pinches her on the side. "I said only one question, Lex."  
  
Lexa's got a devilsh grin on now and she replies, "Well then I guess I can't fuck you if you won't tell me how."  
  
Maybe she's learned a few things about talking dirty, Clarke thinks. She tries a new angle. "Do you have a present for me?"  
  
"I do, if you want it," Lexa says, her eyes and one finger trailing down Clarke's neck to her collarbone to the top of her lacy bra. Clarke curses herself. This is not the first, nor second, nor even third time that she's entered Lexa's apartment with a plan only to have it come undone.  
  
"I want it," Clarke says breathlessly.  
  
"Have you ever," Lexa falters for a moment and Clarke sits up a little, the barest bit of concern across her face. "I mean have you...before...have you?"  
  
Clarke decides to relieve her and admits, "Yes."  
  
Lexa nods and looks away. Clarke can't tell if she's disappointed or disgusted or if she's just projecting her own feelings onto Lexa, but she cracks the tiniest bit more.  
  
Lexa pads across the room and digs into a dresser drawer and pulls it out, a little wider than Clarke's used before, but she'll adjust.  
  
"So I guess this means you've used one of these before, too?" Clarke asks as Lexa takes it out of some sort of casing.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I hope it's clean."  
  
"Gross, Clarke. Of course it is. What's wrong with you?"  
  
"I don't know who you've been with."  
  
"It's new, ok?"  
  
With that, Lexa stops talking and slowly works the insert inside herself. She adjusts the straps along the side and Clarke forgets to be upset as she pulls off her clothes. She turns herself belly down on the bed and looks back at Lexa before propping herself up on her hands and knees. Lexa splays her hands across Clarke's arched back and settles in behind her.  
  
Clarke thinks that if Lexa was still college-Lexa, this whatever-it-is-they're-doing would have been over long ago. But this is adult-Lexa and adult-Lexa somehow knows how to give her even the things she doesn't know she wants. It's almost always late at night, except for just a handful of Monday early afternoons when by some chance their schedules match up. After one tryst, Lexa needs to change the soaked sheets. After another, Lexa finds her necktie still wrapped around the headboard.  
  
They've fallen into a post-coital routine. Lexa pads to the bathroom to clean up, while Clarke pulls on her clothes, then knocks on the bathroom door to tell Lexa that she's leaving.  
  
It's always, always at Lexa's.  
  
Except for the time that it isn't. It's one of those Monday afternoons and Clarke had texted Lexa something stupid about an 'afternoon delight' and Lexa had told her that she was having work done in her kitchen and Clarke's impatience got the best of her.  
  
And now Clarke's half on top of Lexa, her leg jackknifed across Lexa's body and her face wedged into Lexa's neck.

"I suppose we should catch up, eventually" Lexa says, breathless.  
  
"Isn't that what we just did?" Clarke's breathless too, but her words have an edge to them that has Lexa recoiling.  
  
Before Lexa can say any more, Clarke takes an opportunity to attack. "Fine. Since you want to catch up - how many others?"  
  
"What?" Lexa's eyebrows knit in confusion as pulls off the bed sheet to sit up. Clarke sees the new addition to the tattoo on her bicep that she only noticed after a couple of months of sleeping together.  
  
"How many other girls have you been with since us?"  
  
"Why do you want to know, Clarke?" Lexa meets her fire. It's mean and Lexa's eyes stare her down. She's seen Lexa look like this plenty of times, but she's rarely seen Lexa look like this at her.   
  
Clarke doesn't surrender. "Because you're right, you have changed. Things have changed."  
  
"So have you. I'm not asking you about the others." Lexa's back turns to her and she pulls on one leg of her pants.  
  
"What do you want to know?" Clarke challenges.  
  
"I don't want to know, Clarke, that's the thing," she snaps. She stands up from the bed, pulling the other leg of her pants up. "I don't understand why you do want to know."  
  
"I want to know...because..." Lexa looks down at her from the other side of her bed. Clarke doesn't think she's ever thought about Lexa in this room, in this place before. She's kept it guarded on purpose. She's kept herself guarded. And now she wonders what it would have been like to have Lexa with her, in  _this_ place with her, all along. "I want to know what I've...what I've missed."  
  
Up until that point, Lexa had used that clipped, measured voice that wast just  _so_ her. But when she whispers "Oh Clarke" and looks at her with green eyes softer than she's seen in such a long time, all of those tiny breaks in Clarke that have been accumulating over the past several months fracture. It's just a muted whimper at first with only the threat of tears, and then Lexa sits back down on the bed and Clarke leans into her and buries her face against her ribbed undershirt and sobs. She feels Lexa's hand caress up and down her back and she wants to be angry because Lexa did this all those years ago. Lexa insisted that they stop seeing each other. Lexa insisted that Clarke was a distraction. Lexa insisted that they were going in two different directions.  
  
Clarke never agreed to any of it.  
  
  
  
**_III_**  
  
  
  
"I think this was a bad idea," Clarke begins. Lexa's still got just her pants and undershirt on and Clarke's face is still pressed against her side as they sit against the headboard of Clarke's bed. The light of the setting Monday afternoon sun is just barely spilling over and illuminating Lexa's face and Clarke knows that if she looks up at her she'll take it all back.  
  
"What if we start over?" Lexa asks sadly, as if she already knows the answer.  
  
"I don't think that's possible, Lex," Clarke muffles into her side.  
  
"I wish it was," she says, running her hand along Clarke's back.  
  
"Me, too," Clarke says, wistfully. "Do you think we can ever be put back together again?"  
  
"I don't know. I want to."  
  
"Me, too." Clarke pulls back to sit up and find Lexa's eyes. She's never heard this before, this 'wanting to try' and she wants to see if it's true, wants to see if things really have changed.  
  
"What would it look like to try?" Lexa asks, unsure. Clarke wonders if Lexa's been in a real relationship since their time together. Maybe that's what it would look like to try. Then again, Clarke can't say that she's been in any real relationship since then either.  
  
"I'm not really sure," she replies.  
  
"Me, either," Lexa says. She furrows her brow and stops the motion of her hand on Clarke's back for several moments and Clarke can tell that Lexa's about to either run or take some giant leap off a cliff and she resolves not to say a thing as she waits.  
  
Eventually, Lexa asks, "Can we?"  
  
"Can we what?"  
  
"Can we try?" She says, "Can we try 'us'?"  
  
Clarke remembers these lines. The roles are reversed, but she's said them before. And she thinks that she could bite back at Lexa with the same lines she used against her all those years ago, but things have changed.  
  
"I need to think about it," she says quietly instead.  
  
  
  
A lot can happen in five weeks.  
  
When Clarke said she needed to think about it, she didn't think that would mean every waking moment (and in many of her dreams.) She hasn't seen Lexa in five weeks, but if she did, she might imagine that Lexa's thinking about her, too. And she's exactly right.  
  
She still 'grinds.' She's still at the local public school by two to set up for her afterschool classes, but she's also been asked to join the teaching staff as a full-time art teacher next year. She's still headed to the bar Wednesday night through the weekend. She thinks she could keep doing this job - it is good money - but the more her mind settles on being called Ms. Griffin instead of Ms. Clarke, the more she thinks she could just give up bartending altogether, too.  
  
And lately, she's been waking up at eight in the morning and heading over to a friend's studio to spread out a drop cloth, pull out her oils and pastels, and pay homage to Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg and maybe a little bit to that sleepy college town from what feels like ages ago.   
  
Octavia stops by one quiet Sunday morning before they go to brunch. It's her one day off from all of her jobs and she wants nothing more than to spend the entire day in the studio, but Octavia insists on taking her out. Something about ensuring that she has a social life still, now that she's celibate. And she's not officially celibate. She hasn't made any declarations from mountaintops or anything, but she's decided to try it out. She just wants be in the company of herself for a while.  
  
"That's beautiful, Clarke," Octavia says from behind. When Octavia texted and insisted that she was coming over, Clarke had unlocked the door and told her to walk right in when she arrived. She didn't want to be interrupted once she found her groove.  
  
She takes a step back to admire it from Octavia's point of view.  
  
"I didn't realize you were painting again," Octavia says, now turning to look at her.  
  
"Yeah," Clarke agrees absently, stepping back in and making a long stroke with her painbrush.  
  
"When did that start?"  
  
"I don't know," another stroke, another step back. "A few months ago, I guess."  
  
Octavia doesn't say anything for a while and Clarke hopes she doesn't read too deeply into the timing of it all and the splashes of bright green that echo throughout her work.  
  
Clarke can hear the wheels turning.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why what? Clarke asks, finally turning to look at her.  
  
"Why did you start painting again? Last we talked, you were ready to sell all of your stuff and give it up for good." She takes a step closer to Clarke, like being closer will reveal the truth somehow.  
  
"I don't know," Clarke says quickly.  
  
"Tell me." Another step.  
  
"O, don't do this to me, please," she whispers.  
  
"Why? Are you scared?" It's not said in a mean way, but it feels like it to Clarke. Octavia is supposed to support her and this doesn't feel like support.  
  
"Scared of what?"  
  
"Scared of why you've started painting again," she says. "I have a feeling it has to do with who you've been sharing your bed with lately."  
  
"Seriously, O. Don't." Clarke clenches her jaw and turns away, knowing she's revealed too much anyway.  
  
"Ok I won't. I'm just saying," and it's totally like Octavia to pause dramatically, waiting until Clarke finally turns back around and looks at her, "shit or get off the pot, Clarke."  
  
Clarke wants to laugh because that is such an Octavia thing to say and she's trying to make her feel better but she's also right.  
  
  
  
After a brief text exchange, she and Lexa find a time to meet for coffee. She can't sit still, so they take it to go and walk through the park. The leaves are budding and she can hear laughter in the distance and Clarke finds that everything around her teems with inspiration.  
  
They make small talk for a while, Clarke tells Lexa about a crazy night at the bar and the job offer but not about the giant canvas that sits unfinished in a studio a few blocks away. Lexa tells Clarke about a major client and the kitchen renovation but not about how she's found herself in Clarke's neighborhood a few times recently, hoping they might happen to run into each other.  
  
Finally, Lexa finds an empty bench and sits, patting the spot next to her for Clarke to join.  
  
"I didn't think I'd hear from you again," she says, looking down at her hands, then up at Clarke.  
  
"Octavia told me to shit or get off the pot."  
  
"Um...ok?" Lexa says with a serious face. And though things have changed, this is the girl that Clarke fell for in college, this girl who doesn't quite know a joke when she hears one.  
  
"We both know Octavia's the epitome of a gentlewoman...gentlelady," Clarke smiles. "I don't know."  
  
Lexa's confusion turns into a smile when she sees Clarke smile.  
  
"Anya suggested I do some grand gesture for you to win you back," she says, still smiling. "She made me watch this movie called  _Say Anything_. Have you heard of it? I told her I couldn't think of a song that would suit you or suit us."  
  
Clarke's not sure she remembers watching  _Say Anything._  If she has seen it, Lexa's description isn't jogging her memory. She plays along anyway.  
  
"What about that song that you tried to play that one summer when you snuck into the DJ booth and got us both kicked out of the bar?" Clarke asks, laughing.  
  
Lexa laughs, too. "What was that song?"  
  
"Oh gosh, I have no idea now."  
  
"Me either."  
  
The laughter dies down and it seems that they realize at the same time that they haven't laughed together probably since that weekend Clarke spent in New York so many years ago.  
  
"I've thought about it, Lex," Clarke says, breaking the silence.  
  
Lexa looks up at her and puts her hand on Clarke's arm. "Wait," she whispers.  
  
And Lexa has that look on her face again, like she's ready to run or jump off of a cliff and Clarke figures that it worked out pretty well last time, so, even though she had something she planned to say, she waits for Lexa's next words.  
  
They take a moment, like maybe Lexa's been rolling them over inside her head for a while now, but she doesn't have them quite right.  
  
"You've haunted me, Clarke," she finally says in barely a whisper. "I don't know if you remember it, but way back in college, at that lacrosse party, I said something along the lines of being worried that if I kissed you, you'd distract me and if I didn't kiss you, you'd haunt me. You remember that?"  
  
Clarke can only nod as her eyes brim with tears.  
  
"Well I kissed you," Lexa says, her voice raising a little and that one eyebrow moving like it does sometimes. "And you didn't distract me. You were never a distraction, Clarke. You were the balance to my life. I didn't realize it at the time. I couldn't. I was so wound up in business school and making my parents proud, and doing what was expected of me. And I know I'm talking a lot more than I ever do, but I just need to tell you that if I could do it all over again, I'd do it differently. I'd try 'us.' Because you've been haunting me. I kissed you and you haunted me."  
  
Clarke nods, tears spilling over. She nods again and again, unable to break her own silence, but Lexa's haunted her, too. She's never seen Lexa cry and she still doesn't now, but her eyes are glassy and Clarke thinks this is the closest that Lexa's ever been to crying in front of her.  
  
"My job now is all about taking risks," she continues, voice still soft and breaking just the smallest bit. "I'm good at it, but when I think about us I wonder why I never wanted to take that risk and I realize it's because you always held this special place in my heart that threatened to turn risk into such great ruin. But even knowing that, if I could go back and change it all, I'd try. I'd still like to try."  
  
With that, Lexa reaches her hand out, palm up, for Clarke to embrace.  
  
"I want to try, too, Lexa," Clarke whispers, putting her hand in Lexa's and holding it tight.  
  
  
  
**_IV_**  
  
  
  
It isn't easy. With their history, it can't be. They hadn't worked this hard to find each other only for everything to fall neatly into place. Clarke still sometimes asks Lexa about the other girls. Lexa sometimes works too long and won't take Clarke's calls or respond to her text messages. But 'trying' isn't supposed to be easy and they'd both rather try than continue to be haunted by what could have been.  
  
Clarke continues her self-imposed celibacy even after they start going on official dates. At first, Lexa tries to ply her with gifts and sweet words. Then, she threatens her own self-imposed celibacy. Clarke even catches Lexa with her hands between her legs in the shower when she sneaks in to give her a kiss goodbye.  
  
Just hours after that episode, Clarke recognizes that celibacy has its limits.  
  
And Lexa is grateful, if a little embarrassed at being caught.  
  
It's slow and gentle and very much unlike what they've been doing. Clarke remembers that Lexa is generous. So generous. Lexa's eyes still widen in awe when Clarke removes her clothes and Lexa still looks up at her with those bright green, questioning eyes.  
  
"I love you, Clarke," Lexa puffs into her hair after their bodies tire and their eyes are heavy with sleep. Her arms wind tightly around Clarke and if Clarke could pull her closer she would.  
  
"Say it again," she whispers, pulling her head back to look into her eyes.  
  
"You're not doing the scene right," Lexa says with a smile and a laugh. "This was going to be my grand gesture, Clarke."  
  
"What scene?" Clarke asks, brow furrowed.  
  
" _Say Anything,_ " Lexa reminds her, as if they've been talking about it all along.  
  
"What about the boombox?" Clarke remembers. Not that she remembers the movie at all. She just remembers Lexa's words from the park. She'll never forget Lexa's words from the park.  
  
"I found a scene I like more."  
  
"But you already have the girl," Clarke sighs.  
  
Lexa gently nudges Clarke's chin up to bring her into a soft kiss.  
  
"I love you," Lexa says again, forehead resting against Clarke's. "How many more times do I have to say it?"  
  
"Everyday. Always." Clarke says, closing her eyes. She feels like she can finally breathe. It's been more than five years, but she feels like she's finally caught her breath.  
  
Lexa chuckles. "Have you even watched this movie?"  
  
Clarke pulls back, frustrated but with a wide grin. "Since when were you so obsessed with this movie?"  
  
"Since I started thinking about grand gestures," Lexa whispers.  
  
"I love you, too." Clarke says and Lexa nudges her nose and rests her forehead against Clarke's once again.  
  
"That's not the line," she says. Clarke can feel Lexa smile against her lips.  
  
"I don't care. I love you," she says again and she doesn't think she's ever meant what she's said more in her life.

 


End file.
